Collateral Damage
by PeaJay
Summary: Sherlock Holmes once said there are two types of fans. The 'Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away' fan, and the 'Catch me before I kill again' fan. So what happens when a fangirl gets a bit jealous and a lot overzealous? aka How Sherlock and John became a couple. Part 1 in the Mind the Gap series
1. Chapter 1

Collateral Damage

AU – Preslash/slash

How John and Sherlock became a couple. Takes place before (my) Return to Baskerville fic (obviously).

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(with the modern adaptation this fic was based on being credited to the brilliant minds of Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.

Chapter 1

John arrived home from surgery to find Sherlock slumbering, yet again, on the sofa in their flat. This was becoming a troubling habit.

_Habit, _thought John. While he supposed Sherlock _could_ be on the seven percent solution, he highly doubted it. Cocaine made Sherlock more alert, not lethargic - No, this was something else.

John moved to the sofa and knelt down to check on his flat mate.

"What do you want John?" Sherlock's baritone voice startled him, causing John to tilt off balance.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said righting himself. "You scared the wits out of me. I thought you were sleeping. Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine. Why would you think otherwise?" Sherlock opened one eye to peer at John, who seemed to be invading Sherlock's personal space.

John rose, realising his proximity. "Su…Sorry," he stuttered. "I just, well…you haven't really seemed like yourself of late and I just wanted to make sure you weren't ill."

Closing the eye he'd opened, Sherlock turned away from John. "I'm not sure what you mean by being myself, but I can assure you John, I'm well within normal working parameters.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" replied John

"I was thinking and you've disrupted my thoughts. You know how much I hate having my thoughts interrupted." Sherlock was doing his best to irritate John.

John sighed. "Whatever. Christ. I was only trying to help. Tea?" he asked turning to the kitchen.

No answer.

"Sherlock?" - Still no answer. He was obviously being ignored.

"Arse." John mumbled under his breath, walking away. "I don't understand why you can't do me the courtesy of just fucking answering me."

XXX

Sherlock started feeling, 'not right', around three weeks ago. Not around, _exactly_ three weeks to the day. He couldn't figure out what the issue was. At first, he thought it might be as simple as a cold, or probably at worst, the flu. He was dizzy and tired all the time and his body ached terribly if he exerted himself even the least little bit. He hadn't wanted to worry John as it was more than likely something minor and the doctor would chide Sherlock for not taking better care of himself. No, Sherlock decided he would just wait it out. Whatever it was would go away eventually and he would be back to normal. Well, that's what he thought three weeks ago anyway. Now though, he wasn't so sure.

Sherlock had been doing a good job hiding it all from John, or so he thought. He managed to drag himself out of bed every day and make the pretense of working on an important case from Lestrade. When, in fact, Sherlock had actually turned down the case, claiming it only a two and not even worth his time. The case had really been closer to an eight, and one Sherlock would have leapt on had he been feeling up to snuff.

He'd heard John move to the sofa when he came in from surgery. Meaning to have been perched at the window when John arrived, Sherlock couldn't even find the strength to sit up, much less stand, so he had set about distracting John with a bit of misdirection. He also heard John call him a arse. No surprise there, he _was_ being a right arse. He could have said yes or no to the tea. Simple. It also could have been a precursor to John asking more questions. Not so simple.

Several minutes later Sherlock heard his flate mate set a mug down on the table next to the sofa, then move quietly away to his chair. The last thing Sherlock remembered before sleep overtook him was John clicking on the telly to watch QI.

xxx

As John sat watching (not really) QI, he thought harder on the past few weeks. Sherlock had been working on the same case for entirely too long. It never took Sherlock more than a week to solve even the hardest of cases. Something was definitely going on. John looked over to the sofa and watched the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. _Sleeping. _John looked at his watch. For the last few weeks he noticed Sherlock had been dropping off earlier and earlier. He assumed it was from exerting himself all day on a case, but what if Sherlock really wasn't working a case? None of the regular tell-tale signs were there after all. The biggest one being Sherlock hadn't even asked John to consult. Sherlock **always **asked him at some point to accompany him to the crime site, or at the very least asked him a question or two to help 'illuminate' the situation.

Sherlock began to stir on the couch. As he turned, blood began to drain from his nose.

"Oh God," whispered John as he quickly ran to the bathroom to get a flannel. On his way to the sofa he reached down and scooped up his medical bag.

Not wanting to startle Sherlock, John gently said his name. "Sherlock."

Sherlock turned his head again, causing the blood that had been flowing quite freely from his nose to start draining down his throat, effectively choking him.

Coughing and sputtering out blood, Sherlock sat up frantically into John's waiting arms.

"It's okay, I've got you," soothed John. "Spit it out. You've got a nose bleed. Pretty bad one, I'd say." John tried to keep his voice calm.

Still coughing and trying to clear his throat, Sherlock's nose continued to bleed.

"Okay," said John. "Lean your head back and pinch the bridge of your nose." His voice betrayed none of the terror he was feeling inside. "Here Sherlock, take this flannel."

Sherlock could see a slight tremor in John's hand as he handed him the cloth. Sherlock obeyed, taking the flannel and placing it up to his face to help staunch the bleeding.

John was in diagnosis mode. "Is this the first one of these you've had? Don't talk, just nod if so."

Sherlock nodded to the affirmative, his eyes fixed on John. He could tell John was frightened for him. Perhaps this wasn't just a cold after all.

John said, "I think maybe we should go to hospital, yeah?" Then thought - _Why am I asking_? He knew they needed to go, and they needed to go now.

"It's nothing John," said Sherlock, his voice muffled under the flannel.

"Sherlock," John grabbed his arm, "It most certainly is something and I think it's high time we find out what. I'll not sit here any longer and watch you deteriorate further.

Sherlock knew John was right. "Very well," he said resigned.

"Good, then let's go." John got up and moved towards the door.

As Sherlock rose from the sofa the room began to spin. "John," he said in a weak voice.

Hearing his name, John turned just in time to see Sherlock pitch forward and collapse in a heap on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Collateral Damage

AU – Preslash/slash

How John and Sherlock became a couple. Takes place before (my) Return to Baskerville fic (obviously).

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(with the modern adaptation this fic was based on is credited to the brilliant minds of Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.

Chapter 2

Riding in the ambulance, John feared the worst. Cancer, brain tumor… _God_, thought John, _not his brain_. _Please don't let him lose that brilliant mind. _John shook his head to banish the thought. Maybe it was something as simple as an allergy. It was possible in the realm of possibilities – not very probable though.

"Doctor Watson?" The med tech queried, bringing John back to the present.

"Yeah?" said John.

"Is Mr. Holmes on anything? Either prescription or otherwise?"

John cocked his head to the side, "Why? What do you mean?"

"It's just that Mr. Holmes is exhibiting some of the signs of a…" the tech didn't get to finish.

"Drug overdose?" said John a bit tersely, finishing the young man's sentence. "Is that what you were going to say? The answer is no. It's not a drug overdose."

"Doctor, we're just trying to..." again the tech was interrupted, only this time it was Sherlock. He began to shake violently.

"He's seising!" John exclaimed as he moved forward to help turn Sherlock on his side. As he touched Sherlock, John finally felt the intense heat radiating from his body. "What's his temp?"

The tech looked at his notes, "Last recorded was at 40.28 °C."

"Was that rectal or oral?" John said, knowing the former to be more accurate than the latter. A degree or two could make the difference.

"Rectal - When we first arrived on the scene."

"All right, let's take it again and see where he's at." John moved to the side to let the tech around to take Sherlock's temperature.

"Temp reads 41.52C", said the tech.

"Christ," said John softly. "Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

They arrived at the hospital just as Sherlock's seisure abated, and he was whisked away leaving John to fill out paperwork. He thought once on the ride in to call Sherlock's brother, but knew there was no need. Mycroft would know what happened and, more than likely, already be at the hospital somewhere when they arrived.

John waited an agonising thirty minutes with no word on Sherlock's condition. Finally, he saw Mycroft emerge with a doctor. John wasn't certain, he still couldn't tell with Mycroft, but Sherlock's brother was pale and had a grim look on his face.

_No. No. No. No. Please. No. _John kept repeating in his head.

"John." Mycroft tilted his head as he greeted John. "This is Doctor McMurray."

"Hello Doctor Watson," Doctor McMurray said with a slight Scottish burr. "I'm the doctor in charge of care for Mr. Holmes."

The Doctor appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties if John had to guess, and was a heavy ginger man with a great bushy mustache. To John, McMurray looked every bit the stereotype of what a Scotsman should look like, all he needed was a kilt and a set of bagpipes.

John remained silent, looking from McMurray to Mycroft, then back again.

Doctor McMurray continued, "Sherlock is stable, for now."

John bristled at the last words. "For now?" he questioned.

"Yes. We're not quite sure what's causing Sherlock's severe hyperthermic state which, in turn, caused the tonic colonic you witnessed. He's is currently having a CT and MRI. Once those tests are complete and we've got the results, we'll see if we need to do a lumbar puncture to check for any infection.

John nodded in agreement. This was proper procedure for the symptoms Sherlock was presenting.

"As you know," continued Doctor McMurray, "the seizure threshold can be altered by many things including fatigue, malnutrition, lack of sleep or rest, stress, anxiety, antihistamines or several other factors. It's just too early to tell what it might be."

"I should have seen this," John said looking at the floor shaking his head. "I should have seen," he repeated in almost a whisper.

"Doctor Watson, was Sherlock presenting symptoms before today? This might be important for diagnosis," said McMurray.

"Don't you think I know that!" snapped John. "Christ. I should have seen!" John lowered his head and covered his face with his hands.

Mycroft, who'd been standing quietly by watching the exchange between John and McMurray, stepped forward and put his hand on John's shoulder. "John, how long?"

"I'm not sure - Two, maybe three weeks." John looked up into Mycroft's steely eyes - his own vision was blurred by tears. "God, Mycroft…I didn't know. How could I not have known?"

Mycroft squeezed John's arm reassuringly. "Neither of us did John." He raised an eyebrow at John and gave a half smile.

John nodded his head and half smiled in return. He knew Mycroft had the flat under surveillance ever since his first case with Sherlock.

"What do you remember noticing first?" said McMurray.

"Well, probably appetite. It's hard to tell with Sherlock though. He rarely eats anything when he's on a case."

"A case?" questioned Mycroft.

"Yeah," answered John. "Something for Lestrade, although now I'm beginning to wonder if there really was a case."

Mycroft was on the phone immediately. "Greg, you need to get down here straight away. I don't care. It's important." Mycroft rang off.

_Well that was curious_, thought John. All the time he spent with Sherlock seemed to be rubbing off on the good doctor. He noticed two things about Mycroft's call. First, Mycroft called Lestrade by his given name. Just when did that start? John hadn't realised the two men even knew each other. Secondly, Mycroft didn't tell Lestrade which hospital to come to, or in fact that it was a hospital or even what he was coming for. Conclusion? Mycroft had spoken to Lestrade before coming to talk to John.

"Anything else you notice?" prompted McMurray

"What?" John was startled for moment thinking he had spoken aloud then realised McMurray was talking about Sherlock.

"Oh sorry," said John momentarily distracted by the Mycroft conundrum. "Yes, he seemed quite lethargic – sleeping a lot, much more than usual for him. At first, I thought he might be using again but ruled it out immediately. He wasn't exhibiting any of the signs I'd seen before. John realised what he'd just said and that it implicated Sherlock in illegal activity. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip, mentally cursing himself for the stupid slip, then tried to gloss it over, "Sherlock's been clean for some time now."

"John, you can speak freely," stated Mycroft. "He's well aware of Sherlock's" – Mycroft hesitated, looking for the right word – "history. We just need to make sure we have all of the facts so we know how to proceed, right doctor?"

"Right," answered both McMurray and John at the same time, not knowing which doctor Mycroft had addressed his question to.

"Well, other than the lack of appetite and the lethargy, Sherlock seemed his normal self. Well, you know," John said looking to Mycroft, "normal for Sherlock."

"Thank you Doctor Watson. Well at least that's something. Let's finish this first round of tests and see what comes back shall we? We might just be making a fuss over nothing. Could be a simple migraine gone bad … we just don't know yet." McMurray turned to leave, giving a quick look and nod to Mycroft and he was off.

John collapsed down into the waiting room chair. "Mycroft, this wasn't a migraine. This is something serious, I can feel it. Why couldn't I see it before it got this far? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad and maybe I could have taken care of it at home."

Mycroft sat in the hard plastic, NHS standard issue, chair beside John, gripping the handle of his brolly with both hands. "John," he said softly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but when it comes to Sherlock there's a lot of things you don't see."

John stared at Mycroft, finally reaching the meaning of his comment. "No. You're wrong," John said after a few minutes had passed. "He's never even let on. As a matter of fact, he turned me down unequivocally the first night we met. I managed to cover – but it was clear then that he wasn't interested. Not just in me, but in anyone."

"You think maybe he might've changed his mind, John? People do you know?"

"Mycroft," said John a bit more sternly. "You and I both know Sherlock is not a mere person."

"Yes, I will concede your point, but he does have feelings for you John, nonetheless. Only he's not acted on them for fear of ruining the relationship you currently share."

"Relation – What? We're not having a relationship. Isn't that what I've just said?" John was beginning to get flustered. What was it about the Holmes brothers that could rile him so easily?

"Oh, but Doctor Watson you are," came Mycroft's cool reply. "Maybe not a romantic or sexual one at this point, but you do have a special connection with my brother that I've never seen him have with anyone else. Ever."

John was about to protest again when Lestrade showed up. He stood to greet the Inspector, but Mycroft beat him to it.

John noticed Lestrade stopped just a little too close to Mycroft. The two exchanged a knowing look then Lestrade said, "Mycroft, what's happened? Has Sherlock's condition worsened?"

"No Greg, nothing like that." Mycroft motioned for Lestrade to sit. "John said he thought Sherlock was working on a case for you recently. You said Sherlock didn't take the case a few weeks back, had you offered him another case that you didn't tell me about?"

Lestrade looked confused. "A case? No Mycroft, the only one I tried to give him he turned down – said it was a '2 at best'. When I originally discussed it with him and sent over the case file, he seemed quite keen, but the next day he said we would be able to solve it on our own and not to bother him again unless I had a case that was worth it. I haven't heard from him since then."

"Well, he's been acting like he's been on a case for the last three weeks," offered John. "What was the case about anyway?"

"He didn't show you the file?" interjected Mycroft biting his lower lip similar to the way Sherlock did when thinking.

"No, said he didn't need my help that it wasn't very important. Wouldn't let me look at the file at all and told me to just continue my shifts at the clinic. He does that sort of thing all the time, so I didn't think anything of it." John turned back to Lestrade, "The case? What was it about?"

"We found the body of a female - age approximately 20, although it was hard to tell as she'd been in the elements for a few days. She had no ID on her and her fingers had been burned with acid to remove the fingerprints, I assume to make IDing her more difficult. No other distinguishing marks and cause of death was due to some sort of poison that hasn't been traced yet." Lestrade ran a hand through his short salt and pepper hair. "Sherlock seemed really interested when I told him all the details over the phone. He said to send him the file and he'd have a look so I messengered it over to the flat."

This got Mycroft's attention. "Wait, you messengered it? You didn't take it over yourself? You told me you took it over and he said no."

John could definitely tell there was more going on between these two than they were letting on.

"Hang on," said John remembering something. "I was home when the case file was delivered. Sherlock was _very _keen about that case. Even before the file arrived, he had several theories. It wasn't too long after that Sherlock started exhibiting his symptoms. I just figured he was on the case. Do you think the two are connected somehow?"

Mycroft was still glaring at Lestrade, "John do you know where the file might be in the flat?"

"If it's something he's working on, it's generally by the couch where he lays. He does his best thinking there."

"Then perhaps, we better retrieve it and find out why Sherlock was so keen in the first place. Greg, dear may I speak to you in private please?" It wasn't really a question, Mycroft took Lestrade by the elbow and pulled the Inspector away.

John had a lot going on at the moment, but he distinctly heard Mycroft call Lestrade 'dear'. _That explains quite a lot actually_, thought John.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the delay. Work seems determined to undermine my fun time. Many thanks to those of you that have taken the time to read and post a review. Such kind words for my little fic. Very humbled by your appreciations. If you know of any artists that would like to do a cover for it, please let me know. I absolutely love original artwork.

As always, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being credited to the brilliant minds of Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss).  
I've just had a fiddle with them.

Chapter 3

John was hard pressed to leave the hospital with Sherlock in such a state, but it was important to find the case file Lestrade had sent over, so he left Mycroft to watch over him with a guarantee that he would call if there were any change in Sherlock's condition.

Just as John had thought, the file was lying askew underneath the couch in the sitting room of their flat. There was a snap of latex behind John as Lestrade moved passed him to pick up the file from where it lay. "I'll take that," he said leaning down to pick up the file with a gloved hand. He put the file in an evidence bag and sealed it shut. "Hopefully, this will be able to tell us what's wrong with Sherlock."

"So you think what?" John said, watching Lestrade remove the gloves. "That he was poisoned in some way?" John looked around their messy abode. "Knowing Sherlock, he could have done it to himself if that's the case. I mean, look at this place Greg…it's a disaster. I've always thought I'd come home one day and Sherlock will have blown this place, and possibly himself, to bits. He's always tinkering with experiments-you know that as well as I do."

"Sherlock's pretty careful with his experiments John, even if it doesn't look like it. The man's a bloody genius. No, if he's been poisoned it's not his own doing." Lestrade held up the evidence bag containing the file. "This is our anomaly, I'd bet my career this is the culprit."

Lestrade pulled out his mobile and made a call. "Donovan? Lestrade. I need you to rush an analysis on a file I'm sending over. I also need you to get me the name of the courier service we used to send the file over. Put a rush on it Donovan, I want both done within the hour." Lestrade rang off and then immediately dialed another number. "We found it and should have answers within the hour," he said and then snapped his mobile shut and put it in his pocket.

John couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. "So what's the deal with you and Sherlock's brother?"

"You live with a Consulting Detective, work it out for yourself," said Lestrade defensively.

"Sorry, yeah…that's really none of my business is it?" said John turning to leave the flat. He saw Sherlock's Belstaff hanging on the back of the door and reached for it. "He'll want this when he comes to."

"Aren't we a pair?" chuckled Lestrade as he clapped John on the back.

"What? I just meant he'd want his coat. Jesus Greg, don't read anything into it I'm just trying to be a good friend here."

"Sure. Sure," placated Lestrade. "You do realise he never really needed a flat share don't you?"

John tossed Sherlock's coat over his arm as they exited the flat. "What are you on about?"

"Didn't you find it odd that the day I met you, I knew exactly where to come to find Sherlock for help on the serial suicide case?" Lestrade arched an eyebrow at John.

John stopped on the landing at the foot of the stairs, "I'd just assumed Sherlock had told you where to meet him, same as he'd done me." John pulled at his bottom lip, a nervous habit he'd acquired as a little boy.

"Yes, well Sherlock and I have known each other for awhile," said Lestrade. "It's a policy of mine to never let him get too far afield, if you take my meaning? Just easier all the way round if someone is keeping an eye on him. Since you've moved in though, he's been a lot better. I truly expected to find drugs that night we searched the flat, but was pleasantly surprised we didn't."

"Yes, why did you conduct the drugs bust if you're looking after him like you say? What if you'd have found something?"

"Sherlock needs to understand it's not a one man show. It's important for him to keep me informed when he's on a case. If we'd have found something it would have been just an inconvenience, nothing more. He would have spent a bit of time in lock up for possession, but nothing serious. His brother would see to that. He's clean John and I can tell when he's using. I wouldn't let him consult on cases if he weren't clean."

John nodded. "Yes, but you said you were surprised there _weren't _any drugs in the flat."

"It's a constant struggle for Sherlock, as I'm sure you know. What day will be the day his boredom becomes too much? He'd want something on hand for just such an occasion. However, whatever you're doing to keep his mind occupied is working." Lestrade opened the door and held it for John to exit.

"I'm not doing anything. I just nag him about his manners mostly. So back to your original point, if Sherlock didn't need a flat mate, what was the purpose of him getting one?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I don't know John. Mycroft thinks it may have initially had something to do with the fact that you're a doctor. He's good, but he still needs someone to bounce his ideas off of that has a basic knowledge of what he's talking about. None of my men will deal with him for any length of time unless I make them, like Anderson, who's a prat and deserves the abuse. That means a flat mate."

"Hm," said John as he nodded absent mindedly in agreement. John was thinking about what Lestrade had just said. It was true, Sherlock liked to discuss the cases with John. Mostly just to hear his own theories aloud, but in some instances John had actually contributed to solving the case. Sherlock seemed quite pleased with John on those occasions, which gave John an incredible sense of pride and belonging.

As they were driving back to the hospital, something Lestrade said to John struck home. "What did you mean by initially?"

"Just that," said Lestrade as he drove. "He initially needed someone to work with and thought you suited the bill, however he deduced you, and decided to let you move into his flat. John, haven't you noticed? It's all still Sherlock's things in there. Why aren't any of your things lying about?"

"That's an easy one," said John. "He nicks all my stuff. Uses it for his bloody experiments or whatever else he deems important at the time. I had to change the password to my laptop so many times, I just gave up doing it. The man has no idea of boundaries or personal space, Greg. You have no idea." Although his words were laced with derogatory comments about Sherlock, John was smiling.

"Oh but I do," retorted Lestrade. "What if I were to tell you that Sherlock doesn't like touching other people's things? As a matter of fact, he goes out of his way to _not _touch other people's things or other people if it's at all possible. If it's to do with a case, he's always got gloves on. Yet, he uses your laptop and makes off with your things. I think that's his way of saying how much he likes you."

"Get off, don't be ridiculous. This is Sherlock. He doesn't _do_ relationships – of any kind." John was pulling at his bottom lip again. What if Lestrade were right? What if Sherlock had been trying to tell John, in his own strange way, that he fancied him?

Why was he even thinking about this now? They had to figure out what was wrong with Sherlock first, then get him better. Maybe once all of that were said and done, if Sherlock recovered, they could have a serious discussion about the state of their relationship.

Lestrade's mobile rang as they entered the hospital and he motioned for John to go ahead while he took the call.

John wasn't sure if Lestrade didn't want him to hear or if the Inspector was just being polite, either way John wanted to see Sherlock and see if they'd found out anything new about his condition.

As he approached Sherlock's room he could hear a retching sound and in-between each one Sherlock's unmistakable voice could be heard.

"Where's John. [retch] I need John. [retch] Get John now. [retch] Find him. [retch]"

John hurried into the room to find Sherlock sitting on the edge of the hospital bed – his head in a bin as he dry heaved once again. "Here Sherlock. I'm here," said John as he quickly made his way to Sherlock's side. John noted Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. Addressing the nurse he said," Where the hell is his brother? I was told he wouldn't be left alone."

[retch]

"Doctor Watson, I presume?" said the nurse calmly. "He hasn't been left alone. I've been here the entire time. Mr. Holmes…" the nurse stopped, then clarified, … "the other Mr. Holmes received a call and then said he had to leave. He said not to leave his brother's bedside and to look after him and that's what I've done." She sounded offended at the implication she hadn't been doing her job.

"I just meant that Sherlock isn't good with strangers." John realised he was rubbing Sherlock's back while he was talking.

[retch] Sherlock lifted his head from the bin, "John, please don't talk about me like I'm not here."

"Sorry. I'm here. What can I do?" soothed John as he continued gently rubbing Sherlock's back.

"Get me out of here. I want to go home. _Now_."

"That's not gonna happen, Sherlock. Not just yet. We have to figure out what caused this."

"Clearly I've been poisoned, John. The doctor's given me something to get it out of my system, which I've been doing for the better part of two hours now. Where have you been?"

John stopped rubbing Sherlock's back, rolled his eyes and said sarcastically, "Missed me, have you?"

Sherlock straightened his posture and handed his bin to the nurse. "Of course John," he said without any pretense. "We haven't been apart for any length of time since you've moved in, so it's only natural that I should miss your presence when you're not around."

"Oh, jolly good then," said John tersely. "As long as it wasn't anything as trivial as an emotion then." John turned to leave. "I'll go find the doctor. Don't miss me too much while I'm gone."

John straightened into his fall back military posture and marched from the room. "Daft git," he said as he left.


	4. Chapter 4

AU – Preslash/slash

How John and Sherlock became a couple. Takes place before (my) Return to Baskerville fic (obviously) and is the first in the Mind the Gap series, but can stand alone as well.

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(with the modern adaptation this fic was based on being credited to the brilliant minds of Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.

No beta for this chapter so please let me know if you find any outstanding errors. :)

Chapter 4

Lestrade arrived at Sherlock's room just as John was leaving to find the doctor and see about Sherlock's release. "John, hang on. Can you come back in for just a minute? I need to talk to you and Sherlock."

John turned and headed back in to the room. "What is it Greg?"

"You're not going to believe what they found on that case file." Lestrade said as he fell into step behind John entering Sherlock's room.

"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade," greeted Sherlock. "Good of you to come." In the short time since John had left him, Sherlock had managed to extract himself from the bed using his IV pole as a crutch, and was now shuffling about the room hunting high and low for the clothes he was wearing when he was admitted.

John would have been furious with the nurse for letting Sherlock out of bed, but he knew exactly what the detective was like when he set his mind to something.

"Sherlock," John said sternly. "Get back in bed. Now. Whatever you're looking for I'll find it. Lestrade has news for us regarding your case."

"My clothes, John. Find my clothes. I want to go home. You can take care of me there. You are a doctor after all, are you not?" Sherlock huffed as he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his legs giving out at the last second, no longer able to support his meager weight.

John noticed, of course he did, but did not mention it. Instead he said, "All right Lestrade, what've you got?"

"Castor beans," began Lestrade. "The file was laced with their residue.

"You mean like Ricin?" John said grasping the bed rail for support. "Christ," he whispered.

"Have you run a tox screen on the girl as well?" chimed in Sherlock.

"Girl?" asked John.

"Yes, John. The girl," said Sherlock impatiently, as if everyone should know what he was talking about.

When it was clear that John still didn't follow, Sherlock sighed. "The girl -the one with no fingerprints? The case John…the start of this whole mess."

"Oh, that girl." Realisation finally dawned on John.

"I'll get someone on it straight away," said Lestrade. "I'll talk to you two later," he said leaving the room.

John was pulling at his lip again.

"I can practically hear the gears turning in your head John," Sherlock said sarcastically. "What is it?"

"Sherlock, someone was deliberately trying to kill you."

"Possibly," answered Sherlock.

"But why, was it that they didn't want you to solve the girl's murder?"

"More the cause of it, I should think," replied Sherlock as he began to stand.

"Whoa, wait. Just where do you think you're going?" John grasped a wobbly Sherlock's arms to steady him, causing the pair to come dangerously close to one another – their noses almost touching.

"I told you John, I'm going home. Now help me find my trousers or I'll make my way back to Baker Street as I am, with my bum peaking out for all to see."

John grinned up at Sherlock and thought, _He bloody well would too_.

"If you two are quite finished flirting," snarked Mycroft Holmes as he strode into the room, "I've managed to get your release, Sherlock. Doctor McMurry gave strict instructions for you to follow once you're home. You're not out of the woods yet, dear brother. You're to wear a mask at all times for the next week at least, and take pure oxygen three times per day. You shall not over exert yourself in any way. No strenuous activity…of any kind." Mycroft turned his eye on John. "I'm sure Doctor Watson can see to it that you follow the regimen Doctor McMurry has prescribed."

John nodded, "Of course," he said as he handed Sherlock his trousers.

"Mycroft, I don't really think all of that is necessary. I'm feeling much better," said Sherlock as he manoeuvred the IV pole around and began putting on his trousers.

"Yes, it's quite necessary. Your immune system has been compromised, brother. You'll also have to go through another round of charcoal I'm afraid. Doctor McMurry wants to make sure you don't have any lingering amounts of the poison in your system."

"And if I refuse?" said Sherlock defiantly.

Mycroft twirled his brolly nonchalantly. "Then here is where you'll stay, dear brother, shackled to the bed if necessary. It's your choice." He turned to leave. "Goodbye, Doctor Watson. Do take great care of my brother, won't you?"

John had a feeling that statement had a double meaning. They always seemed to with Mycroft Holmes.

Xxx

It had only taken a few hours after their return to 221B for Sherlock to start pacing the flat. There still hadn't been any word from Lestrade and Sherlock was getting antsy. John had to do something before Sherlock got too wound up. "Sherlock remember what the doctor said? You mustn't exert yourself. Lestrade will ring us when he's found something. It won't do to worry yourself, would you like some tea?"

"Worry myself? Myself? Oh, my dear Watson. It's not myself I'm worried for." Sherlock continued to pace.

John stepped forward into Sherlock's path to halt the pacing. "Then who?"

Sherlock grabbed both of John's arms, looking him straight in the eye and said, "Why you, of course."

John's breath hitched, "Me? Why would you be worried about me? You're the one that was poisoned."

"Oh, come on John. Don't be so obtuse. Think!" Sherlock said, shaking John slightly.

As John opened his mouth to answer, there was a knock at the door. In one swift move, Sherlock took a step back from John, grabbed his oxygen mask and laid down on the sofa.

Fearing Sherlock had over exerted himself, John moved forward to help him but was waived off by the detective to answer the door instead.

John opened the door. "Yes?" he said to the girl standing there. John thought she looked to be about 19 or 20 years old. "May I help you?"

"Hello, my name is Jennifer Mason," she said. "I'm a messenger for Silver Streak messenger service. I was told to come to this address and answer questions regarding a file that was delivered a few weeks back?"

"I'm sorry, now might not be a good time," said John. "Can you come back, possibly this evening?"

"I'm afraid not, I was only able to get time off now if I switched shifts with another messenger."

John looked back over his shoulder to the sofa where Sherlock was laying and looked to be asleep. He knew Sherlock would be furious if the opportunity to question the girl slipped away, so he opened the door wider and said, "Then please, come in and we'll get started. We'll have to be quiet, my flat mate's a bit under the weather today. Would you like some tea?" John moved to the Kitchen and put the kettle on.

"That would be lovely, ta," said Jennifer removing her coat and scarf and glancing at Sherlock on the sofa.

"How long have you worked for Silver Streak?" said John coming back into the sitting room and motioning for Jennifer to take a seat in Sherlock's chair.

"What's the matter with the bloke on the couch?" she said ignoring John's question.

"Just over exerted himself a bit, I think. He'll be right as rain in a few more days. So?" John pressed on. "How long have you worked for the messenger service?"

"Just a few weeks," said Jennifer seemingly distracted by the slumbering Sherlock. "You're sure he'll be okay? He looks a bit pale if you ask me."

"Well, I wanted to ask you a question about that," said John taking a seat opposite Jennifer in his own chair. "It seems the file you delivered was laced with some very bad poison and that's what's made my flat mate sick."

This got the girl's attention. "Poisons can be deadly," she said matter of fact. "Am I in danger of getting sick?"

"No, I don't think so. You would have noticed right away if you'd been exposed. Do you know who sent the file?"

"I'm afraid not. I just picked it up at an office on Euston and brought it straight here."

The kettle popped off and John rose to attend to the tea. Re-entering the sitting room he was shocked to find the girl hovering over Sherlock.

"Don't disturb him," he said louder than intended, startling Jennifer. "Come away from there, please."

"I don't think he's breathing," she said in a meek voice.

"WHAT?!" John moved forward in a flash and that's when it happened.

Jennifer pulled a syringe from her pocket and made to inject John as he moved forward. At the same moment, Sherlock opened his eyes and bolted up from where he'd been laying. He grabbed Jennifer's wrist and wrenched the syringe from her grasp.

"For you Doctor Watson," said Sherlock as he handed the syringe to John. "You might want to ring Lestrade now. I think we've found Jennifer Mason's killer as well as the person responsible for my condition."

Very good Mr. Holmes," said the girl, her demeanour now completely changed. "I am sorry you suffered so, as I'm sure you're well aware it was never intended for you. I would never want to hurt you. You're magnificent. You need someone by your side who appreciates your talents." She looked at John and said, "Not some pathetic middle aged war vet who can't even follow your train of thought much less give you what you need to excel. It was generous of you Mr. Holmes to take pity on him."

"You can stop there, Miss…?"

"Susan. Susan Upton."

"Yes, well. Miss Upton, you haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about and I'll happily see you jailed for the rest of your life for trying to kill the most amazing man I have ever known."

John pulled his mobile and began dialing Lestrade. There was no way he'd just heard what he thought Sherlock had said.

A/N:

A little bit about Ricin: Ricin is a potent toxin extracted from castor beans. There is a lot of fear and misinformation associated with this poison. A ricin dose the size of a few grains of table salt can kill an adult human. Ricin is poisonous if it is inhaled, eaten, or injected. It can be dissolved in water or weak acid and added to a drink. It is not absorbed through the skin, so simply touching ricin or getting ricin powder in your eyes will not cause poisoning. Although Ricin is a deadly poison if mixed/prepared properly, it's mostly done incorrectly, therefore there has only been one death attributed to Ricin poisoning and it was the assination of Georgi Markov in 1978.


	5. Chapter 5

Many thanks once again for everyone's patience. Here it is…the last chapter. If you're reading this first, please do continue on with my Return to Baskerville story then The Mysterious Case of M. Aaron Batiness. I'd love to hear what you think. Reviews are love as they say.

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this story was based on being credited to the brilliant minds of Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.

"Did you mean what you said?" John asked. He was sitting at the desk across from Sherlock, who was currently staring at his computer screen. A week had passed since the incident with the Upton girl.

It was all very sad really, at least in John's mind anyway. Susan Upton was actually quite brilliant, a genius in fact. According to her confession, she'd seen an article in the newspaper about Sherlock and became obsessed with him. Lestrade told John and Sherlock that the girl didn't have any family and no close friends to speak of, so it had all come down to Sherlock. Lestrade said her flat was one big shrine to the Consulting Detective. "Very creepy," were his exact words to describe it. She confessed to killing the real messenger, Jennifer Mason, and of taking her place to deliver the file. What she hadn't counted on was John never even touching the file and Sherlock getting exposed instead.

Sherlock, who was normally very chatty about solving a case, was strangely quiet for the past week.

"I said," reiterated John. "Did you mean what you said?" It had been eating away at John ever since he heard Sherlock utter the words.

Sherlock finally looked up at him. "You're going to need to be more specific."

"No," said John – the corner of his mouth turning upwards. "I don't believe I do, Sherlock. I think you know _exactly_ what I'm talking about."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to smile. "Quite so, Watson," then he returned to staring at his computer screen.

John waited patiently for Sherlock to continue. After a few minutes of silence from the other side of the desk he said, "Well? Are you going to answer the question?"

Without looking up from his computer screen Sherlock said, "John, is your ego so fragile that you need my reassurances?"

Sherlock's tone was acerbic, but John could tell he was nervous. He began to wrestle with his thoughts now. Should he just leave it alone then? Or perhaps he needed to pursue it to its conclusion whatever that may be? If there was ever going to be anything between he and Sherlock, now would be the time to bridge the gap, so to speak. But what if a relationship was not something Sherlock wanted with John? Well, not _that_ sort of relationship. John surely didn't want to jeopardise the great friendship he'd built between them, and he began to panic a bit at the thought. He realised it was more important to remain friends and not risk the alternative.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter," said John resigned, as he rose from the other side of the desk. He'd just made it to the kitchen when he heard, "Yes."

It was barely audible, but John had clearly heard Sherlock say 'yes'. Better still was what he heard Sherlock say next.

"Yes," whispered Sherlock again. He stood and crossed the sitting room to stand in front of John in the kitchen. "You are undoubtedly the most amazing man I have ever met, and if you think for one moment that I wouldn't want a relationship with you, then I haven't taught you anything about deduction."

John's mouth dropped open. "How did you…" he began, then decided to seize the moment. "Oh, sod it," he said as he moved forward, pulled the detective into a tight embrace and kissed him hard on his plush lips. The kiss melted into something more passionate as they both began to grope at one another. Hands were fisted in hair, pulling back, exposing expanses of neck to be nibbled.

He was so caught up in the moment, John didn't realise Sherlock's breathing was erratic.

"John," Sherlock said as he pulled back. "John," he said again as his breathing became more laboured. "I ccan't… where's my …. breath…," Sherlock was waiving his hands around.

John immediately rushed back from the kitchen to Sherlock's room. There on the bedside table sat the breathing apparatus Sherlock had been using for the past week. He grabbed it and hurried back into the kitchen.

Sherlock was now seated at the table, eyes closed; performing what looked like some form of Buteyko breathing.

Sherlock opened his eyes as John approached.

"Better?" asked John as he handed the oxygen mask to Sherlock.

"A little and this will help even more, thank you," he said putting the mask on.

Now that the crisis was over, John felt a little guilty for having caused it.

"Um, yes…well um…hm…," he said trying to put into words what he was feeling. "Sherlock," he began. "Look, I'm really sorry about that. I mean…I didn't think about your breathing…and I know, I know…you hate it when people don't think, but… I um, it's just that…well. I'm not doing this very well am I?" John rubbed his face with one of his hands.

Sherlock removed the mask from his face and stood. "Stop," was all he said then leaned forward and kissed John on his nose. "I have been waiting for you to do that since that first night at Angelo's.

John moved an unruly curl from Sherlock's forehead. "But you said…"

"I know what I said – but you never paid any attention to my body language. It was the complete opposite of what I was telling you. I figured if you were interested, you would have seen the signs. As you brushed it off, then so did I. I was just following suite, John. We were getting on so well, I didn't want to spoil it. Then tonight, when I deduced it all in your face…all of the turmoil you were going through, I just couldn't let it happen again. So don't be sorry, John. This breathing issue will go away soon and we can pick up where we left off. That is if you'll have me?"

John rose up on his toes to kiss Sherlock's temple, and as he came down he stopped to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "I'll have you until you beg for mercy, my good man."

"Careful John," came Sherlock's growling reply. "I'm not that good," he said with a wink.

"Come on you idiot, let's go have a lie down shall we? You need to rest. I'll read you to sleep." John got Sherlock situated in his room before returning to the sitting room to retrieve a book.

Perusing the shelves of the bookcase, John came across an aged book of poetry hiding among several books on apiaries and other beekeeping tutorials. He thumbed through it quickly and found the particular poem he was looking for.

Sherlock looked so peaceful lying in bed with his eyes closed. John thought once about retreating and letting him drift off on his own, but decided to pull up a chair and read him to sleep as promised.

Sherlock's voice was deep, but soft. "I thought you said _**we **_would have a kip?"

"Yes, well I didn't want to take liberties and assume I could just climb into bed with you. An invitation is always welcome," John said with just the smallest trace of sarcasm.

"Oh, then please dear Doctor Watson, won't you join me here in my bed for an afternoon rest?" Sherlock smirked.

John pushed the chair back to its place in the room and moved around to the other side of the bed. "All right, smart arse…that'll do."

They both smiled at one another as John toed off his shoes and slid into bed.

"What did you find to read me to sleep, then?" asked Sherlock, clearly knowing the book John was holding was the first edition poetry compilation his mother had given him as a child.

"It's a surprise." John nestled in beside Sherlock. "All right?" he asked to make sure he was still welcome.

"Yes, quite all right," replied Sherlock placing his arm around John and pulling him closer. "Now, that's got it."

"Cheeky bastard, stop being so flirty. You're supposed to be settling down, not getting riled up."

"Yes, dear," was all Sherlock said as he kissed the top of John's head.

"Right then, here we go." John flipped open the book and began to read, with a slight Scottish lilt to his voice.

_Not the bee upon the blossom, in the pride O'sinny noon;_

_Not the little sporting fairy, all beneath the simmer moon;_

_Not the minstrel in the moment fancy lightens in his e'e,_

_Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, that thy presence gies to me._

"Robert Burns. Last stanza of 'Thou Fair Eliza', if I'm not mistaken," said Sherlock.

"My dear sweet man," smiled John as he closed the book. "You rarely if ever are."

John laid his head upon Sherlock's chest and the two of them drifted off to sleep.


End file.
